


Close My Eyes

by mbaline



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Dissociation, Fisting, Flashbacks, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10167881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mbaline/pseuds/mbaline
Summary: He’s not awake, not exactly, when he feels it: a warm body pressed up against him, a hand snaking its way down his chest to rub teasingly over the line of his hip, fingertips brushing against the base of his not-quite-soft cock, stirred into hardness by the lingering memories of a few hours ago and the faint, residual ache that still lingers.Sex with Steve has always been easy; uncomplicated.Until it isn't.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for [this prompt](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2271.html?thread=5144543#cmt5144543): A lot of Bucky's memories of cryo are indistinct and blurred; it usually took a few hours for his body to become fully operational as he slowly warmed up. During that time - fading in and out of consciousness, his body limp and pliant, practically paralysed - Hydra agents (and technicians) repeatedly took the opportunity to take their turns with the Winter Soldier. 
> 
> Cue Steve waking Bucky up (having resumed/started up a relationship post-WS, not knowing about Bucky's sexual abuse) with a nice, slow handjob/blowjob/fingering, and all of Bucky's memories of waking up to being raped while he lay helpless coming flooding back. Optional: Steve doesn't realise that something's wrong until they've both come, and the ensuing aftermath. Bonus: if Bucky himself didn't remember his sexual abuse until that exact moment triggers it. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warnings for rape flashbacks, past dehumanization and vomiting. (Please let me know if there's anything else I should add to that list.)**

He’s not awake, not exactly, when he feels it: a warm body pressed up against him, a hand snaking its way down his chest to rub teasingly over the line of his hip. Fingertips brush against the base of his not-quite-soft cock, stirred into half-hardness by the lingering memories of a few hours ago and the faint, residual ache that still lingers. 

Fingers encircle his cock, right below the head. The touch is soft, barely there; the slow stroke from root to tip that follows not nearly enough. He needs more, but asking for more means dragging himself out of this warm, half-waking place. 

He doesn't need to ask. There's a faint press of teeth to his neck, and then lips at his ear, biting softly and then mouthing at the shell. He shivers, lets their quiet murmur wash over him. 

“Want me to--” _do something about that, don't you, asset._

His body is limp, half-frozen, beyond his control, his jaw locked; hands roll him onto his front, easing his hips up until he's on his knees, pliant beneath their hands. He presses his face into the pillow, letting it swallow his ragged breathing. Maybe if he---maybe if he doesn't let them---

_Huh, looks like it's really awake this time._

_Oh yeah, look at that._

Hands spread him open. The pad of a thumb presses against his hole, teasing, until it twitches beneath their fingertip. It's been long enough since the last time that he’s tightened up, some, enough that it takes a little pressure for their thumb to ease in, sliding in through the mess from earlier that's still slowly dripping out of him. Another hand moves to stroke down lower, cupping his balls, rolling them in their hand and then squeezing at them firmly enough for his eyes to water. His cock throbs, thickening under the stimulation, under the feel of their gaze on him, splayed open like this. 

_Looks like it’s ready for round two, huh?_

_Yeah, look, it likes that, doesn't it._

The thumb eases free, dragging over the mess that's dripping out of him and pressing it back in, before being replaced with fingers that sink in past his swollen rim. His body doesn’t fight it. It lets them in easily, and for a few minutes the only sounds are the pleased murmurings of the person behind him as his balls begin to swell in their grip, and the wet sound of their fingers working him open again. The stretch burns. His hips twitch anyway, pressing back into the touch against his will. 

_Told you it's a slut for it. Look at that, spreading its legs for us._

They're up to three fingers now, fucking into him, loosening him up. Getting him ready. His cock is fat against his belly, his balls a heavy, aching weight between his legs as a hand tugs and strokes at them. The edge of pain as a fourth finger sinks into him is distant, familiar; so too are the bright sparks behind his eyes when knuckles drag over that spot inside, dragging a low groan out of him before he can stifle it. The way his body betrays him is most familiar of all: arching back into the touch, seeking more of that good, bright feeling that cracks through the icy numbness of everything else, desperate for anything that could ever make this almost bearable. 

A touch of unfamiliarity: a warm press of lips to the curve of his thigh; no teeth, no biting, no marking him up for the others to see. Just a soft touch, there and then gone. Their fingers pull free, the hand releasing its grip on his tight sac. He braces himself for whatever comes next. 

_Think it's ready for the whole thing?_

_Doesn't really matter, does it?_

The fingers are back, slick now as they press into him. They pause, teasing, fucking into him shallowly and then drawing almost all the way out. A few moments of resting there is all it takes for the muscle to flutter around them, clutching at them, trying to suck them in deeper. 

_Wait. I want to hear it say it._

_Go ahead, asset. Beg._

His mouth forms the words he knows to say before he even fully registers what’s been asked of him. Instead what comes out is a ragged “St--” but he can't get the word out. Doesn't even know what it is he's trying to say. 

And now he’s left them waiting; if he doesn't respond now the pain will only be worse later. 

He manages to unclench his jaw enough to gasp out the old, familiar phrases, each syllable like acid on his tongue as he spits it out. 

“Give it to me, please, I want it,” and it’s like a dam breaking, more words flowing from him; unceasing, unbidden, _please, fuck me, I want it in me, don’t stop_. 

_Yeah, that’s right, slut._

Thumb tucks against palm, and they begin to press in. Knuckles stretch him wide, and then wider, the width of their palm opening him up. A hand curls around his hip to hold him in place as they press in deeper, implacable, until he can feel overworked muscles fluttering around the thickness of their wrist, their knuckles bumping right up against that spot inside as their hand curls into a fist and draws back. It’s too much, far too much, only growing worse on the next slow pump of their fist into him.

_Fuck, that's right, lie there and take it like a good asset._

By the fifth thrust they've reached a rhythm, working their way into him with steady, twisting motions of their hand, his thighs shaking under the stimulation. By the ninth, the jerk of his hips has become erratic, caught between pressing into their touch and arching away. 

His next aborted movement forward sends the wet tip of his cock scraping against the sheet below, and that's all it takes. 

His whole body seizes, clenching down hard as his cock jerks, pulsing out thick spurts of come in time with the unrelenting press of their hand into him. His desperate pleas choke off into silence as the feeling overtakes him in powerful, gut-wrenching waves, but they don’t slow the pump of their hand, don’t ease up. Instead his torment only seems to drive them on, dragging him shuddering and gasping through one unending, unbearable moment where all he can do is writhe on their fist as the press of their knuckles sets his cock spilling out another stream of come, marking up the bed and his thighs and his own heaving chest. 

The pillow swallows his choked-back yell when a hand closes around his cock and begins to pump it punishingly fast, palm slick with come, dragging more weak spurts out of him with tight pulls of their hand. Trying to pull away earns him a hand moving to grip at his drawn-up balls, stroking them with a rough palm and then tugging and squeezing at them firmly, milking another fitful load out of him as he shakes and doesn't stop shaking. 

It feels like hours have passed by the time they finally show him mercy; long enough that he registers only distantly when they give a few more slow pumps before easing their fist free with a wet, obscene noise. His hole twitches at the absence, unable to close, not even when they press in a few testing fingers, spreading him open a little to look at the mess they've made and then pulling back. A few seconds of another wet, sloppy noise is all it takes before their nails are digging into his cheek, a long, drawn-out groan the only warning he gets before spurts of heat splash against his thighs, his ass, right over where he’s been fucked open. 

_Fuck, fuck, yeah, that's right, bitch. Fuck._

After a few moments they slump down against him, blanketing his body with their bulk, their barely-flagging erection nudging between his thighs. They tuck their face into the crook of his neck, humming with satisfaction. Curved lips brush against his ear.

 _Think it can_ “--go another round, huh, Buck?” 

The ice recedes. There's a patch of wet where his face was pressed into the pillow, more wetness beneath him, on him, painting his chest and ass and thighs. Everything aches. 

The nightmare can wait; if he lets himself think too deeply about it he’s going to crack to pieces. For now, he forces his mouth into a smile, arching back into Steve’s touch and pressing his legs together until Steve groans, rutting down into the tight, slick space between his thighs, nudging against the underside of his balls. 

“Go ahead, champ,” Bucky challenges, punctuating his words with another firm squeeze of his legs. 

That's all the permission Steve needs. He works up a rhythm fast, dragging the length of his cock in and out of the space Bucky’s made for him, snapping his hips forward again and again to push himself right in there. It doesn't take long for him to lose patience at the angle; within minutes he’s curling an arm around Bucky’s waist and pulling them both onto their sides, fucking hard and fast between Bucky’s thighs, the swollen head of his cock brushing against Bucky’s balls with every thrust. The not-pain of it is practically excruciating, the feeling only intensifying when Steve gets a hand on the muscle of chest and begins to pluck and pinch at his left nipple until Bucky’s chest heaves, his left palm going down to rub over the slick tip of Steve’s cock each time it pushes between his muscled thighs, urging him on. 

Maybe it’s the shock of the cool metal on him - sure as hell wouldn’t be the first time it’s produced the same reaction - or that he’s finally being touched there or that it’s Bucky doing the touching, but the reaction is immediate: Steve goes still behind him, his coherent babble of “God, Buck, Bucky, yeah,” choking off into silence. The next moment he’s clutching hard at Bucky, his cock spilling in thick, wet pulses, the sound of his thrusts going sloppy as his orgasm ripples through him. The tight pinch as his fingers close around Bucky’s nipple is all it takes to drag him shaking and shuddering along for the ride, barely holding back a flinch when Steve’s softening cock nudges against his tender, oversensitive sac. 

After a few minutes of sated silence, Steve slides free, mouthing a line of wet kisses over the back of Bucky’s neck. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice still sleep-rough. 

“Hell of a way to wake a guy up, Rogers,” Bucky smirks, before the memory of earlier washes over him again. His throat closes up. His stomach churns. _Not now,_ he tells himself, _not yet,_ but it’s no use; his right hand is shaking, now, the plates of the left shifting and resettling.

He pushes himself upright, turning away from Steve. “I gotta take a shower,” he manages, voice steady as he waves away Steve’s sleepy protests and gets out of the bed, stumbling towards the bathroom on unsteady legs.

He closes the door gently behind him, feeling the last of his self-control crumble away as he does. _Safe,_ his mind supplies him with, even as his pulse kicks into high gear, a strangled sob catching in his throat like a shard of glass. It takes a few tries to get the shower door open, fingers fumbling, his right arm gone numb. The rising whir of the left sounds like a harsh, metallic scream, half drowned out by the rising rush of blood in his ears. 

The sensation of the cool white tile against his bare feet is the thing that finally cracks him open. His legs buckle beneath him, and he just barely manages to flick the shower onto full blast before he’s on his knees hunched over the drain and spitting up bile, and then bloody saliva, and then nothing at all. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> How is it that after three years of being in the Cap fandom, it took me this long to write a) My first published Steve/Bucky fic, and b) More importantly, my first _fisting_ fic?! It shall forever remain a mystery. I'm hoping to add to this, but since I've said that for my last few fics I'm gonna go ahead and mark this complete just in case (though any suggestions for what you'd like to see happen are totally welcome). 
> 
> Comments/feedback are much appreciated; please let me know what you thought! <3 (And if there's any warnings/tags missing, please let me know that, too.)
> 
>  
> 
> [My tumblr!](https://mbaline.tumblr.com/)


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